White Christmas
by Laura Andrews
Summary: Susan on Christmas Eve. Just a gentle, Christmassy one-shot.


_White Christmas_

Snow falls softly past the windows of the flat; Susan stands on a chair, hanging greens around the room. Christmas songs play in the background and she sometimes hums, sometimes sings along. The tree in the corner sheds a gentl light around the dim room.  
Christmas has been her favorite time of year for as long as she can remember. The songs, the smells, the lights. The only thing missing is the carolers; no one in their right mind would climb this many stairs just for hot chocolate and cookies. Only the ground floor gets carolers.

Once the decorating is done she sits in her rocking chair with a cup of tea and surveys her handiwork. Any minute now John will come up the stairs; and there, she hears him now, singing _Jingle Bells_ in a rather breathless voice.

She opens the door and waits for him to come into sight. His arms are full of packages and she runs out to help him. He gives her a kiss as she takes several brown parcels, then his eyes go wide.

"No, not that one!" he says, snatching it back. "That's yours."

"Did you remember the raisins?" she asks as they go inside the flat.

Susan unwraps his scarf and helps him off with his coat as he sets his burdens down on the table and looks around. "Was I gone that long?" he says. "You've done everything."

"Raisins," she says.

"Oh, oh. Yes, I got raisins. And currants. And …" he pauses and she looks at him with a raised eyebrow. "Close your eyes."

She does so. There is a rustling sound and she peeks slightly. "Eyes closed!" he orders, and she closes them again.

A moment later he pulls her by the hand towards the door. "Now you can look," he says. As soon as her eyes open he gives her a long kiss.

"Oh," she says. Mistletoe, of course. She pulls him in for another kiss. When they pull away at last, she smoothes her hair and dress. "Well, I haven't done everything yet. We have to put the ornaments up and wrap the gifts. Have you talked to your parents yet?"

"Yes. They won't be able to come; my sister had already invited them, and, well …"

"It's all right," she says, giving him a peck on the cheek. "We'll have a cozy little Christmas all to ourselves."

"I was going to say that I happened to see your aunt and uncle at the post office and invited them over."

"We do that ever year," Susan sighs.

"Well this time they said they would come 'if they could make it'."

"Oh did they?" She tries not to sound disappointed.

"I think it's the right thing to do," he says. "They're lonely, Su."

"Oh yes, definitely the right thing," she says. "Here, help me tie my apron. But that doesn't mean I want to have them underfoot. Besides, you know they're vegetarians. They'll turn up their noses at our hard-won bird and take twice their share of salad."

"Hard-won," he laughs. "Well, I suppose it was. I had to carry a lot of boxes up Peterson's stairs to earn it. But they'll eat the pudding, I'm sure. And if you serve their plates, they can't take more than their share."

She turns to go into the kitchen and he follows her.

"Harold told me that this is the first Christmas they've had, since Eustace and then Alberta's mother, where they felt like celebrating anything. I felt we ought to have them over."

"Of course," she says. "I don't mean to sound inhospitable, John. It's just that, they are very snobbish and ever since I was a child I've felt they disapproved of me. Well, of my whole family."

"Perhaps they've changed. How long has it been since you spoke to them last?"

"Oh, something like a year I suppose. I only said hello then anyways. It wasn't much."

"Well I found Harold, at least, to be very polite. Alberta didn't say much."

"Then she has changed." Susan laughs. "All right, you've convinced me. I'll just prepare extra salad."

That night, after dinner, they hang the ornaments. Susan pulls out the battered packing case, filled with carefully wrapped glass. They kneel on the floor and together they take them out one by one.

Susan hangs the small framed pictures herself: Peter, Edmund, Lucy, mother, father. The grief has faded to a small, lonesome ache in her heart over the years. She presses her lips gently to each one before placing it on the tree. John gives her hand a squeeze and they go on with their work until all the ornaments are hung. The glass catches the lights and dances on the walls.

"Now for gifts," Susan says.

John takes his parcels to the bedroom and Susan sits at the table.

"I've forgotten the ribbon!" John calls.

"You can come out, I haven't got anything in sight yet," she calls back.

Half an hour later she finishes and places the gifts under the tree. John emerges a bit later. He sits in his easy chair, she sits in her rocking chair, and they sip tea. Susan puts out her hand and meets his halfway. The snow falls through the darkness outside the window.

 _Merry Christmas everyone!_


End file.
